


Not the Hero Type

by dragonnan



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Man 3 Compliant, Pepper Feels, Post Avengers, Protectiveness, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Has Issues, between films
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that was why he hadn't been paying attention.  Or, maybe he'd been looking for this.  He didn't know.<br/>He rarely cataloged his reasons for anything.  He fired from the hip and most of the time it struck dead center.<br/>But when he missed, oh it was a spectacular miss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Hero Type

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyWoo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SydneyWoo).



> Set between Avengers and Iron Man 3. Some spoilers for both, though nothing really specific given away for IM3.

Captain Red White and Bluer than You America.

 

The guy bled altruism. If an X Ray were taken of his heart they'd find a tattoo of the Star and Stripes waving majestically with every beat. Nobody could be that land of the free unless there was a bald eagle somewhere in their DNA. Barely cracked a smile even when something struck him funny, Cap had a way of making Tony's best material deliver like a two headed calf.

 

He'd read the file. After the fighting but before the clean up had been completed. While the nation was still flipping back and forth between celebration and mourning. He'd known already. About the serum. Back at the tower – when he'd first received the information. Still swallowing through the thick incredulity that yes, in fact, goddamn aliens were real – mother fuck. Not just aliens, either. Gods. Real, freaking, gods. In capes. It had... taken a lot of alcohol.

 

But the dirt. The black and white and gritty... He hadn't known. Sure, yeah, the stories he'd heard in his father's proud baritone. About the plane and the rescues and the little guy saving the world.

 

Not about Hydra – beyond the coded drapings of nondescript Nazi bad guys bent on world domination. Same shit different lunatic with a big stick and a buttload of goose-stepping followers..

 

Not about Johann Schmidt – other than the comic book version of a jilted science experiment that took “daddy issues” to a whole other level. (At least until Gollum trotted on scene with a literal big stick, glowing to boot, to redefine that genre from the ground up).

 

Mission details still confidential, it wasn't for fear of damaging his child's psyche that Howard hadn't shared everything.

 

But then, dad had been the champion of not sharing everything.

 

Sitting in the den. One of the dens. Sitting with the shades drawn shut and the lights bright. Too much outside to see for him to allow even a sliding glace to take it in. Still too much of stirred memories for him to allow shadows to gather in corners. To start thinking of grit and filth and freezing in the dark.

 

He read about the skinny kid from Brooklyn. About the murder of the scientist in charge and the real story that turned a miracle of science into a running gag in pjs. He'd dug through his dad's old film canisters; not surprised in the least to find several stacks of Captain America newsreels and war effort promotional clips. Thirty-six hours of tape devoted to his old man's hero. Tony had let them play while he'd continued to read. Two hours into the second reel and he'd scrubbed a hand through his hair and wandered from the room to find a shower and a clean set of sweats.

 

He'd yet to return.

 

It was all about timing, really. Putting the numbers together. Dividing days from weeks and subtracting the years. Three, maybe four days. From the moment he'd lost his best friend to the moment he'd woken up seventy years late. Big deal. They'd all lost someone. They'd all seen death. Close friends. Family. All of New York was facing that. Get over it.

 

Just as if he himself didn't still dream of the darkness. Of the blood. The whispered words writing themselves like a mission statement branded on his soul. He couldn't find enough saliva to mock his own movie of the week.

 

Pepper had found him hours later, sitting in the smaller kitchen off the forth floor lab. He hadn't even been drunk. She'd rubbed his back and asked if he was hungry. He'd said no. She'd asked if he'd wanted to go to bed. He'd said yes. Some time later, after she'd given what she could of comfort; after he'd tried to do the same for her, he was still awake. Her body, heavy in sleep, hugged against his side. One hand cupped over the metal imbedded in his chest, cutting some of the glow. He'd had insomnia for weeks after his rescue. Nightmares hadn't been enough nor the, at the time, baffling conflict with Obie. The glow, searing blue in the dark. And yet, there'd been comfort in that as well. For a guy who'd literally and figuratively and often on YouTube been caught with his pants pooled around his ankles, it was a piercing humiliation to admit gratitude at having a built-in nightlight.

 

If monsters chased him in the dark he could at least see where to place his feet to run away.

 

Maybe that was why he hadn't been paying attention. Or, maybe he'd been looking for this. He didn't know. He rarely cataloged his reasons for anything. He fired from the hip and most of the time it struck dead center. But when he missed, oh it was a spectacular miss.

 

And here he was. Unlikely candidate for a crime that went well beyond the trappings of mundane. Pathetic, perhaps. Laughable, certainly. Painful? Yes. Definitely. If his charm hadn't been enough to boot him from the Super Friends this little encounter would more than suffice for a dishonorable discharge. Worse, even, than that, he'd used up most of his bitching allotment to instant replay the previous evening. Maybe now wasn't the best time to compare and contrast the military's finest man of the American cloth with the washed up husk of occasional alcoholic part time ghost in the machine currently bleeding standard issue B positive on the concrete.

 

Half his age and twice his height, Stuart Little and Tiny Tim were pawing the trinkets they'd collected from his person after that yellow flag moment minutes ago. They'd gone all out on their little urban Robin Hood cliché too. Their mothers and/or parole officers would be so proud. In addition to the tire iron they'd also managed a suitably dark and litter infested alley. All that was missing were the ra... oh, never-mind. One of the cat sized squeakers was just crawling from the dumpster about six feet downstream.

 

“Where's the cash?”

 

Tony lolled his leaking skull left-wise; bringing himself up to speed that one of the fine young gentlemen had wandered back to his side of the alley sometime in the last few... hours? Yeah, that was a concussion.

 

“That's the-green stuff, right?” Slurring. Kinda took the edge off his response but hopefully the all teeth grin helped it along.

 

Yup, sure did. Helped it right into a fist planted somewhere to the right of his appendix.

 

“Umph! Mmm... stellar delivery.” He coughed, noting the flavor of freshly diced liver on his palette. “No, really,” he wheezed, pushing slightly more vertical against his wall. “Watch a lot of Lamont Peterson?” He cocked his head. “Nah, you strike me as more of a Butterbean fan...”

 

Strike – got it in one as the second wallop emptied lungs and sarcasm but had the satisfaction of a yelp and gouged knuckles as his assailant stumbled backward, staring. Not just a glorified pacemaker and dream chaser, it also slices and dices. Though smoothed and polished for that nonabrasive comfort and style, the casing of his arc reactor was still metal. Very hard and very undentable by human knuckles no matter how large they were. Maybe still lacking in verbal comebacks, Tony still managed a wincing wink through his scrambled gasps.

 

The other guy stashed the Patek Philippe, no doubt dazzled with the notion of raking in a couple hundred for that bit of wrist gadgetry at the closest pawn shop in spite of the original sticker price. Tony didn't even know the original sticker price. Could care less about the sticker price and would be content with a hunk of plastic dressed up with Mickey Mouse so long as it alluded to the time. It didn't necessarily have to keep the right time either. An approximation... really. At least within a twelve hour window.

 

“That some kinda vest?” Big bad and angry grappled with complete sentences around the mouthful of scraped flesh. His buddy, still going through their recent windfall, was back to picking through the wallet that had yet to disgorge anything more than plastic.

 

He watched both young men while evaluating his own limits. Scruffy, oversized clothes in spite of their height. Easy enough to overpower them both. Even with him injured it wouldn't honestly be a fair fight. He'd gotten his breath back, now. Still dizzy and blinking hard but he could work with that. Wouldn't pass up a glass of Scotch. He'd even be happy with a stick of Juicy Fruit.

 

Or a... rock.

 

Good enough. His fingers crawled towards the... huh... not rock. Pitted, carbon black, the outer curved edge held a slight sheen. A tooth. Not even a whole tooth – just the sheared off tip from one of those... flying eel... things. The kid currently engaged with his wallet suddenly called for his buddy, giving Tony the chance to tuck the tooth into his palm as Clockwork Orange turned away.

 

Advantage him in those seconds, both with their backs turned and enough adrenaline to overcome the wobble, he pulled to his feet with barely a scrape of his heels, tooth dropping into his palm. Taking in a single breath to gather himself, he...

 

Legs. Funny time they chose not to work. Not funny hilarious but more like funny 'Oh Shit!'

 

“...oh fuck, dude, check out the name on the card! Dude, we just beat up Iro-KEVIN, LOOK OUT!”

 

Ramming into a body, maybe not heavily muscled but defiantly tall and weighing slightly heavy on the boney end of the scale, wasn't such a consideration when sardined in a sexy can. Doing so with nothing thicker than jersey cotton blend as a shield... So he'd have a few more bruises.

 

Even with a partial warning the kid wasn't given the time to react and he was shoved into the wall facing them both, a crack of his forehead against brick stunning him long enough for Tony to sweep his legs and spin towards the other guy; one hand already chopping down on the awkwardly drawn handgun. Hefting the tooth in his fist, he swung the flat side against the younger man's jaw – dropping him against a dumpster before turning back towards the first young man and ending the fight with a kick to his diaphragm.

 

Bad guys zero, peeled Iron Man three. One groaning, the other drooling on the pavement. Not pretty but good enough for Instagram.

 

Cap would have had them all shaking hands and singing America the Beautiful. One look at Stars and Bars in spandex would have...

 

Scrunch against the concrete.

 

Tony dropped his fingers from their probe of his lower lip. He turned, wobble hijacking his speed.

 

Air brakes on a delivery truck behind him.

 

“I...”

 

Discharge of gunpowder. He'd miscalculated. The kick had been too low – missed the disruption of the diaphragm leading to a faster recovery.

 

There was no metal to shield him.

 

 

 

*-*-*

 

 

 

Whiskers against his face. He didn't own a dog... or a cat. Bunny? Well, not unless Pepper was going through some sort of empty nest event – God, he hoped this didn't mean she wanted kids, cause most people he knew advised him against procreation. Plus he really wasn't... yeah, no.

 

One eyelid slid up to take in lots of dark. Lying on his belly didn't allow much of his personal lighting to glow up his surroundings. And OW... trying to roll hurt like fuck!

 

He blinked – enough to pick out more details. There was a rat six inches from his face.

 

“Buh!” Tony swiped with one arm – smacking the wretched creature and knocking it several feet back where it rolled, recovered, and scuttled out of sight. Worse was the very, very bad ouch. He missed his suit but it was rewarding to know he could still defeat monsters without it. 

 

Oooookay, so not dead. Though from the feel of his midsection, his merry band of highwaymen had gone from cutpurse to alley surgeon. Be fascinating to know what his gall bladder would bring on the black market. 

 

The second roll didn't hurt less than the first piss poor attempt but at least he succeeded in reaching his knees. One arm snaked over his belly and found wet warmth. Only a small panic in his throat – _clipped the outside, not fatal, he'd had worse..._

 

He let his hand drop back to the cement to brace as he pushed up – leaving a red hand behind in the grit.

 

The trembling hit just as his legs straightened beneath him. Wall close enough to brace, he gasped and held a fist against the hard circle of metal and light protecting his heart. The black shrank around him – fast – a circle rushing tight like a noose – held back by the blue glow streaming through his fingers.

 

He didn't know how long he was there. 

 

He checked his watch and remembered the absence of his property at the view of bare skin. He used his wrist to scrub wet from his eyebrows instead. He wasn't steady, as he pushed from the wall. Another useless pat down turned up the square root on nothing. So they'd taken his phone too, big surprise. Flitting thought of Bruce getting a late evening drunk dial from someone other than himself. Ridiculous bit of amusement – nobody could use his cell other than himself and any unauthorized attempt would power down the device. 

 

Powering down sounded fantastic. As it was, he had some distance to go before he could pass out in a pool of his own excretions. So he'd walk. It was only fourteen blocks. No sweat.

 

 

*-*-*

 

 

He was barely a step away from crawling by the time the sliding doors of Stark Tower opened beneath his palm. Non fatal as it was, the crease from the bullet had gone from a patch of wet to a streak of red halfway down his thigh. So he might need a stitch. 

 

“Welcome back, Sir. Do you require paramedics to be called?” JARVIS, God bless him.

 

“No need. An ice pack and a bottle of Aspirin will be fine.” He bumbled over his sneakers on the way to the elevator and yelped as his body angled sideways into the corner of small table. The only item on the small table was a potted orchid. He was going to die from internal injuries because someone thought the lobby needed color. Well it had plenty of color now with the drops and smears he was leaving in his wake.

 

“JARVIS, is Pepper in the suite?” He finally managed to knuckle the right button to bring the elevator.

 

“Indeed. Would you like her to meet you in the medical bay?”

 

Tony sank against the wall of the elevator as the doors closed on him. “If you wouldn't mind. Oh, and you might want to cancel my cards and keep an eye on any sketchy purchases,” he scratched his chin stubble, “that aren't mine.”

 

“Of course, Sir. I have also taken the liberty of tracking your phone and have alerted police to the likely location of your assailants.”

 

Tony winced but let it go. He'd explain subtly to JARVIS when he wasn't dripping. 

 

Did he pass out between the elevator doors closing and the trip to the 3rd floor? He must have done something because there was an odd few moments of blank... nothing.

 

“Oh my God, Tony, you were shot!?”

 

His hands slammed out to either side of him – striking the metal walls at the pounding shriek that bounced around the tiny room. Damage control bubbled out even before his brain clicked that it was Pepper screamed at him from the open doors.

 

“-nicked, more like a nick. Look, I'm barely even bleed-”

 

“Barely bleeding? Tony, you... you, you've-”

 

Overreacting. That mother thing kicking in again – yeah, she didn't need rug rats with him to take care of. Wasn't she just the lucky one.

 

“Oh, come on. You've seen worse. Tell me you haven't seen worse.” 

 

“This isn't about worse; this is about-”

 

“A run down? Is that it? You need a run down?” 

 

“No, I don't need a run down-”

 

“Because I can do a run down, if you want.”

 

“Tony, I don't-”

 

“Afghanistan, Vanko, space invaders-”

 

“Tony-”

 

“Cause trust me, they were worse. They were a hell of a lot worse!”

 

And, just like that, he was gasping for all that oxygen floating around him but somehow missing his lungs. God, what the hell was wrong with him? Okay, so maybe the damage was more fatal than he thought.

 

“Oh, Jesus, I'm dying!”

 

Maybe a little too verbal the way Pepper lost more pigment that she could afford. “Oh my God – JARVIS!”

 

“Medical personnel have been contacted and will arrive in four minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

 

“Don't need...”

 

“Tony, shut up!” Tony shut up. He could argue – excelled at arguing, actually. With Pepper, specifically. He never won but that was never the point. Okay, sometimes he won but only in theory and never technically. Speaking. And those few times he thought he'd won for real, Pepper always had something to reassert the fact that his “winning” was due to her indulgence. 

 

“Just sit here, don't talk, and don't move!”

 

“Okay, yes, got it. Don't talk and don't move.”

 

Her hands felt him up. Well, not... Owwwww-fuck. Found the scratch that was slightly more than a scratch. “You're talking.”

 

Tony wheezed and tried to make each breath count. “I'm not-”

 

“You are.”

 

“-talking, I'm answering-”

 

“Answering is talking.”

 

“Clarifying.”

 

“Talking. Shut up.”

 

“I love you.”

 

She hadn't expected to hear that. He hadn't expected to say it. But... it was true. It tasted right.

 

“I love you.” His lip quirked. Funny how honest declarations triggered that same anxious feeling as when he was a kid and waiting to hear approval for his latest creation. Trying to live up to a super human ideal in spangled underwear. With dad he'd always come up short. With Pepper... Well she'd never let him down yet. That seemed to be his job.

 

He had no chance of being perfect. But he could try. For Pepper, he had to try. If tonight made nothing else clear, it was that he was slightly less than hero material as an ordinary human. He couldn't save himself from a couple of street punks, how could he protect the person who matter most?

 

“Tony...” 

 

He had to protect her.

 

“Sir, paramedics are in the lobby and have been directed to the 3rd floor. Perhaps you'd like a more comfortable location to receive treatment.”

 

Stiff fingers pushed across the floor until they met with Pepper's tapered nails. He tugged at one finger until she let her hand be pulled into his palm. 

 

“I...” A tight wedge in his throat made his eyes mist over. He snuffed in a staggering breath as Pepper brushed back his hair with her free hand. He licked salt from his lips.

 

“I want to go home.” He tipped his head. “To Malibu. With you. I want... I want to go home.”

 

Pepper seemed to be having the same problem with her eyes as she wiped wet from her cheeks.

 

“Yeah. Okay, yes. We'll go home.” She nodded – wiping off his own cheeks next. “We'll go home.”

 

Home sounded... good. More importantly, home sounded safe.

 

Stark Tower had shown its vulnerabilities. New York was still filled with monsters.

 

The house in Malibu was no more perfect than he was, but it was a place he knew. It was a place he could think. 

 

They'd leave that night. Bruce could run the labs, here. Cap and the others would watch the city.

 

Iron Man, however, had far more important work to do. Someone to protect who mattered more than any other human.

 

He wasn't Mr. America the Brave. He couldn't stop a bullet with his teeth. Or his ribs... But he would be a hero where it mattered. The little guy, saving the world.

 

At least his piece of it.

 

The thumb screws on his chest eased up with his decision. That innocuous cartoon fish bubbled through his head, 'just keep swimming'. 

 

He could do that. That, at least, he could do. Marathon some nights in the lab; coffee and Rockstar could keep him going for days. As long as he worked, he didn't sleep. If he didn't sleep he didn't dream. Didn't freeze. Didn't make extremely stupid decisions just to chase the terror rather than run from it. 

 

Paramedics entered the elevator, pushing Pepper back through the doors. Tony bit around a gasp as they swarmed – crowded him in those white suits that looked nothing like insect lizards. He refused the stretcher – legs worked just fine. 

 

Pepper followed as they led him into the medical bay. Fully equipped and then some. No doctor on staff, currently. Still looking for someone qualified in Hulk biology but plenty of gauze and tape. He let some kid with floppy brown hair tape shut the furrow in his side. He passed on the offer for a ride to a “real” hospital – emphasis was rarely attractive. He'd had open heart surgery in a cave with dirt and scorpions where anesthetic and pain medication were a pipe dream. He had it on good authority that he didn't die easily.

 

Pepper insisted he see someone in Malibu. By the time they got there he might even agree to do so.

 

They left within the hour. Didn't need to waste time packing. He didn't say goodbye. Partly because he didn't say goodbye. It wasn't his style. They'd miss him when they missed him. He wasn't hard to reach at any rate. He just wanted to go.

 

Happy was ready with the car when they stepped from the building. The drive to the airport took fifteen minutes. Fatigue was letting him feel his hurts by the time they were boarding the jet. He sagged down on one of the couches and Pepper tugged his sleeve until he tipped, wincing, against her shoulder. The angle sucked and he twitched around until finally pushing himself back up straight again. He rolled his attention left towards an anxious stare.

 

Smiling was the wrong response but he used it as his default so often it was hard to turn it off when he was tired. Besides, he really didn't want to express what he really was feeling until he was in a place unlikely to be invaded by flight attendants. At least it got Pepper to smile back, though it looked about as honest as his felt.

 

“You hungry?”

 

Pepper's smile twitched towards humor. “Are you offering?”

 

“Maybe? I had them stock the galley with hot pockets.”

 

“Hot pockets? Really?”

 

“You want a hot pocket?”

 

This time she she laughed – her nose crinkling. “Yes. Yes, I would love a hot pocket. Thank you.”

 

Tony bumped the call button on his arm rest. Two pockets, one for each of them. Classic pepperoni with a side of marinara. Hell, he even splurged on sparkling lemonade. 

 

He rotated the bottle of lemonade in one hand while Pepper used a knife and fork to autopsy her meal – opening the center to let out the steam. He gulped at the gooey insides of red and darker red strung together with melted cheese. He pushed his own pocket away with his pinkie.

 

“I thought you were hungry.”

 

The sip of lemonade bubbled all down his throat. He coughed and regretted it. “Mmm... yeah, no. You were hungry. I was being polite.”

 

“And now you're not being polite.”

 

Tony was ready to spar back – keep it moving like they always kept it moving. But for the fact that he wasn't strictly in the plane any longer. He was above it. Pulling in a spiral – high over New York with the sky shifting from blue to foreign galaxy. Claws snatched his wrist.

 

“Nuh-!” Eyes spread wide at the French manicure brushing the cuff of his sleeve. 

 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

 

Tony blinking out sticky sleep confusion. He blinked again at the windows – black night and a little too reflective of thoughts he didn't care for. Pepper moved her arm to his shoulders. “You've been asleep for nearly two hours.”

 

Which meant the drugs worked. And now they were wearing off. “Nugh... My mouth tastes like stale Muppet.”

 

The fingers lifted to his hair and he almost drooled at the spray of tingles that rained through his spine. “Please don't ever stop doing that.”

 

Less a smile – more indulgence as Pepper ran her nails to the top of his skull and down again – still curling through his scalp in glorious motion.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Hm?”

 

The fingers stopped but Tony didn't whine, whimper, or make any other sort of noise like a tiny little doggie. He drifted back into the now – waking up fully to the present. He tried to stretch but the motion tore a hole right through him. Right, that hurt. What was he saying?

 

“Tony?” That anxious tone. Why did she always get anxious?

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What happened today?”

 

Tony dipped his head back and forth. “I... may have walked into a door.”

 

That lost him the fingers completely – Pepper's arms crossing. He could hear the evaluating usage of his name in the tilt of her head. Not a conversation he knew how to have, though. And when he did talk about... feelings... he tended to go all or nothing. Messy. And rambling. And the plane ride was too short to start this now. He shook his head.

 

“It's nothing. Really, it's not even worth getting into.” He appreciated the layout of the cabin – allowing him to stretch his legs. Pace. Pepper stood too, though she remained next to her seat. Always the steadier of the two of them. The anchor to his sail.

 

“You were shot.”

 

“You know, so were like, a hundred other people today. Some of them even died.” Wrong thing to say – he saw that now. Her face twisted into angles that made his chest ache. “Look, it's okay – yeah?” he thumped his knuckles against his chest. “I'm still here.”

 

He didn't know that look that he got back though he could read the ingredients – sorrow, fear, resignation, exasperation, with just a little salt and... “Pepper, I promise you... it's going to be okay.”

 

And she nodded. Letting it go. For now. Never forever, though. She held on to conversations. Hoarded them. He hoarded classic cars so he guessed it was fair. They each had their hobby. He blew air past his lips – staring first at the carpet before shooting something Stark subtle through his lashes. “Can we still cuddle?”

 

He wasn't fully winning her over with this. But she wasn't angry with him either. Didn't stop her from giving him her own eye down through her lashes when he sat. Sat – dribbled – he'd had enough of being on his feet. He eased his hand on the seat between them – waggling his fingers. She let her hand slide into his. 

 

He sniffed and nodded.

 

They'd be landing in Malibu in an hour. His arms felt like wet cotton. Legs were barely more substantial. But he couldn't deal with that right now. He knew, now, what had pushed him to go home. It wasn't a retreat. He wasn't hiding. He damn sure wasn't scared.

 

New York had plenty of heroes. Plenty of people who were worthy of the applause and acclaim. Tony had fans too, sure. Plenty of them. But they didn't need him. And a critical look at his history would be enough to raise the question of his heroic deeds. Outside of his little cape and spandex club. All of his personal villains coming to life through his own actions. Obadiah. Vanko... If Iron Man had never been... would they have existed? 

 

Too late to turn it back. 

 

Too late to stop, now.

 

Pepper's head on his shoulder. She was dozing. Sorta. Blinking. Quiet enough to hear the slight wisp of her lashes against his sleeve. He remembered waking to whiskers against his cheek. Revolting, ratty, moving a shudder through his limbs. But it brought back something else as well. A question he'd meant to ask. Rising up out of the mass of greater importance and attention grabbing topics – coiling up through his brain and asserting dominance above every other concern. It seemed a decent place to end their travels, at any rate. A good place to start the next story.

 

“Hey, Pep?”

 

“Mm?” Soupy sleepy response, but awake enough. Just enough awake. For this.

 

“How do you feel about bunnies?”

 


End file.
